


Ctrl-C, Ctrl-V: Confidence

by TheConflicted



Series: Copy-Paste Confidence [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Canon Divergence, Flowey Gets a Hug, Redemption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 12:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12432471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheConflicted/pseuds/TheConflicted
Summary: One change. One variable. A single edit. That's all it takes to alter the course of history. Time only moves linear when looked at backwards. Life is not a cause leading to an effect, over and over again. It's a million little things creating a million more. Change one variable, one detail, and something else will change. It might be big, it might be small, but a change occurs.CONFIDENCE INSERTEDCOMPILING...RESULT:You are walking through the old ruins of Home. The journey is long, going all the way from New Home to here. The place you first met them. You think about what you'll talk about this time, what stories you'll share. But you are interrupted by the sounds of something new: a human. A child. Just like the first one. They didn't call for help, but you've come. And now you'll take care of them.You decide to take them on the great walk from the start of the ruins to your home. Hopefully it'll be a pleasant one. Hopefully you can do it right this time. Hopefully you can protect them. The human needs you, and you'll be there. You're the strongest thing in the Underground, and you won't let harm come to them. In fact, you'll love them, with all your SOUL.





	Ctrl-C, Ctrl-V: Confidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you make a new friend.

**Ctrl-C, Ctrl-V: Confidence**

**One change. One variable. A single edit. That's all it takes to alter the course of history. Time only moves linear when looked at backwards. Life is not a cause leading to an effect, over and over again. It's a million little things creating a million more. Change one variable, one detail, and something else will change. It might be big, it might be small, but a change occurs.**

**CONFIDENCE INSERTED**

**COMPILING...**

**RESULT:**

* * *

 

**Part 1: Leaves**

This was always the part of the walk you hated the most. This long, dark hallway with only the barest scraps of light. The ground might as well have been an inky black void of nothingness. It gave you a prickly feeling unmatched by your prickles. But you take a deep breath and clench your hands. You feel your arms, and you have your legs. You're here, and whole, and it won't happen again.

Your boots against the ground is the only noise in this dark hallway. The sounds of life you've grown so used to is missing here. It's both a comfort and a distress, but your existence is a grand contradiction, so this isn't new. Being torn between wanting to be totally alone so you aren't swamped with frustration, guilt and paperwork or wishing someone was there so this long walk was a little friendlier and not full of static-laced memories and regret was something you could handle.

You stop at a little patch of grass sequestered in the darkness, one of the few places in all the Underground where the sun shone. As good a place as any to stop and prepare your speech. What will you tell them this time? Talk about how this year's nose-nuzzling championship was boring until you and Gerson decided to sneak out and play some board games? They never liked the nuzzle-con, but the story was funny, especially when you decided to pull a prank that led to several monsters thinking they'd been drinking spiked punch when they absolutely hadn't. They'd probably laugh at you for going only part way with the prank, but as a true connoisseur of jokes you'd convince them that it made it so much funnier.

Or you would if they were alive to listen. Do you miss them? You don't know. You wish they were still here, and you hope they remain in the ground and stay gone for the rest of your unnaturally long life. You hate them. You love them. You owe a lot of what you are now to them, and you can never tell them how amazing it's made you and how much you despise them for what you've become.

Maybe you could tell them about how Metta— Actually, scratch that, they'd hate that story. How about...

You find your thoughts coming to a screeching halt as you hear something you had not expected in the least. Footsteps, and they aren't yours. This is incredibly bizarre, as you're the only one who has any reason to go this far into the earth.

Normally you wouldn't be scared and frozen like you are right now. You're the most powerful creature in the Underground, after all (with one major exception and two monsters that come vaguely close). What do you have to fear? Maybe it's the surprise that there's someone here besides you. Or maybe it's that you can immediately tell how small the footsteps are. Sneakers against dirt, a sound you can distinguish with how fondly you recall it. You dare to hope, and are unable to stop the worry. Without meaning to, you conjure the image of a flower bed ripped asunder, your work ruined, as they come closer...

But no. It's nothing like that. It's something interesting. Something new. Something you've never seen before.

A human. Well, you've seen a human before. But you've never seen this one. How intriguing. How refreshing. How troublesome. But you suppose it's good you found them first instead of some clumsy froggit or a stupid vegetoid.

You take stock of the little human. It's hard not to, what with how... new they are. You immediately know they're a child, their striped shirt making it clear. Though how short they are makes it pretty obvious as well. They're holding a stick in their hands, pointing it to you like it was a weapon. But the fear on their face gives them away; they're as dangerous with that stick as a puppy would be, as far as you're concerned. Their vague almost-threat against you is born out of terror instead of malice. They're also covered in scrapes, the lone bandage on their cheek the only medical attention you see. And that bandage looks old, the stickiness failing and it looking ready to fall off. Not all of those cuts and bruises are recent.

Goodness gravy. How are they even able to walk? Their ribs should be broken, if not their legs. That's what happened to the first human. They're a tough little runt if they aren't. If they are, they're resilient as heck. You respect it either way.

You realize you've been staring at them for a minute while they just stand there. You let out an “Oh!” and clear your throat. “Ah, erm, yes. Sorry. So... uhh.”

You pause to give the human a moment to stop flinching.

“Howdy. I'm Flowey. Flowey the flower. A shock, I know, I bet you never would have guessed, right?” Again you pause, hoping your attempt at humor coaxes a little more ease into the conversation. “So, welcome to the Underground. Golly, you must be so confused. I'd like to teach you how things work around here... and I will. If you let me.”

The human is still clutching their stick, but their grip is relaxing. Further proof their intent is anything but murderous, much to your relief. You kneel down and offer a hand to them. They wince, of course. You can't blame them.

“Don't worry, my thorns aren't sharp.” Your wiggle your fingers, which look a lot more like the thorns of a rose stem shaped like claws than what a human hand resembles. Funnily, you think this is a good introduction for the rest of the weirdos the human will meet. They’ll have to get used to it, after all.

The human, however, does not approach. Part of you is hurt, wondering if you're just that ugly to a human, but you're too understanding to feel that way for long. You pull your hand away.

“Hey, no, I get it,” you say. And you really mean it. “You fall down a hole in a mountain and you meet a giant flower person... thingy.” Smooth. You don't have a script prepared for this, though. You think back to the kids you've helped in the alleys of New Home and try to apply the same logic you used to get them to go home to their parents. You smile as warm as you can and say, “But, gosh, you're clearly hurt, and the path is long and a little dangerous for a kid like you. At the end of the ruins up ahead, there's a cozy house with a warm bed and an even warmer meal waiting for you. If you come with me, we can clean you up and have something to eat.”

The human is torn on survival instinct and how appealing your offer is. Though they still hesitate, they lower their stick. You hear a grumbling from their stomach. Their defenses lower. What little fight they had in them is gone. They're at your mercy. You decide to spare them.

“Hey, I know I'm a flower, but I'm not a salad,” you joke. They don't relax, still, but they at least smile, however tiny it is. “Let me spare you your hungry fate before you decide I'm dinner, huh?” You wink and stick out your tongue. “Well, come on, then. We've got a ways to go. Golly gee, how rude of me, I forgot to ask your name. Could you tell me?”

The human makes a low grumbling noise, as if the words they wanted to say turned to whispers on the way up. Hmm. That's not just fear of you.

“Not the talkative type, eh? Well, that's okay. I can talk enough for the both of us.” You stand up, leading them along, further into the darkness to the only door. The only path they can feasibly take before they reach the ruins of the once-great city.

As you walk into the first room of the ruins, the leaves crunching below your boots, you realize you've completely forgotten about the flowers that could use watering. You feel no guilt over this.

The human walks into the room and looks around with a little bit of wonder. You ponder how much of the wondrous sensation they're experiencing is being masked by worry and terror. You just don't know, and you relish that feeling.

“I consider this the real start of the Underground,” you say as you walk up the stairs. “The ruins proper, where monsters once lived. It's purple, old, crumbly, cold, and cramped.” So many memories, you think as you run your fingers along the wall. Too many memories, too hazy. But you have something more important to think about, no different than normal. “But hey, at least it's Home.” Your joke is lost on the human, but you make sure to tell that one to Toriel later.

The human follows you at what they consider a safe distance. You haven't met a lot of humans, but you think this one seems particularly skittish.

You walk into the next room and you sigh while slumping forward. The stupid puzzles reset, same as they always do. You can't wait until the renovation project can get started and you can destroy every last goddamned puzzle in this place. How do these atrocious things work, anyway? You literally walked through this room ten minutes ago and all the buttons are up and the door's locked.

“So, funny story,” you say as you turn around, your smile slipping on like a sock. “Monsters used to try and... capture humans.” Not a lie, but you do resolve to admit to the killing thing when it becomes relevant. “They made puzzles and traps to slow them down while they prepare more puzzles and traps. Brilliant, huh? So getting around these ruins involves a lot of problem-solving. Would you like to try and solve it?”

They hesitate, because of course they do. The Underground is likely the only place in the world with puzzles the size of a room, or bigger. What human would think any of these are safe? They're afraid any press of the buttons would spell their demise.

When their only reply is to stand there, you say, “No problem, alright? Aside from the puzzle in the room, that is. Here, let me.” You walk the path you've memorized; you're fearless, after all. You pull the lever on the wall and, with a thick  _ click _ , the door pops open. You naturally want to say, ‘Thank goodness, I almost did that in the wrong order. I could have lost my head!’ just to see them squirm. But you're better than that.

What you actually say is, “There's more puzzles up ahead. We've got a bunch to get through before we get to the caretaker's place, so don't pass out on me just yet!” Which is still a little insensitive, but better a joke about that than making them think everything is out to kill them. Even if some of it actually is.

During the next painfully simple puzzle, you rattle on about puzzle history in the Underground and the vines on the walls and a bunch of nothing. Part of it is to sooth the human, get them used to your voice, and the other part is you despise the quiet. You wish they'd hurry up and trust you so you can have a proper conversation, and you don't let that wish go any farther than that.

You come across that stupid dummy Toriel set up. Such a dumb, paranoid idea. Kids aren't that moronic. They are that scared, though. Begrudgingly, you admit to yourself that she had a point. Kind of. A small one.

“So, the Underground is full of monsters,” you say after clearing your throat. “Most of them are like me, except not as handsome.” You wink, and they smile in a small sort of way. “Almost all monsters are friendly and mean you no harm. Some are clumsy and overall kind of stupid.” You feel your face contort into a look of aggravated disgust. You do not take such complicated emotions for granted. “They don't mean you any harm either, but are pretty good at accidentally causing it.

“A few...” There's no dancing around this point, not without lying. So you tell the truth. “A few do want to hurt you. They want your SOUL. But they aren't the sort who will do anything to get it. Almost all monsters can be talked down with the right words. Failing that, if you talk enough, that will give me time to come over and spare you any more pain.”

The human is clearly shaken at this idea. Who wouldn't be, really? Aside from you, of course. And Undyne. Papyrus, too. Also Asgore. Also the temmies. Maybe Sans, but he's a hard guy to read.

You know a lot of monsters that aren't shaken by death threats. Huh.

“Right, so!” you said, focusing back on the dummy. “What do you say we practice? With a nice, safe, dumb old dummy that can't hurt you.” The human still pauses. You sigh, your smile falling away. “Alright, look, kid. I know you're spooked, but I need you to work with me here. You're safe with me, but I have to make sure you can protect yourself and get out of trouble in case we get separated. Alright?”

The human winces at your change in tone. You know you should feel bad about the emotional whiplash (and you do), but this is serious. Thankfully they seem to realize this and step forward. More likely they're just doing what you tell them to do. You make a mental note that the human might be easily ordered around, but you need to get to know them better.

You enter an encounter with the human, taking the role of the dummy. You stand behind it and use your hands to give it horns from the human's perspective. “Grrr, I'm a dumb dummy. I just sit here and tell everyone how dumb I am.”

The human giggles at that. Actually giggles! What progress! You fully expected them to freak out at the sensation of their first encounter, but you won't complain about this outcome.

“So, when monsters want to, they can start a FIGHT,” you say. “And when they fight in a FIGHT, they go right for the SOUL. See that red heart right there?”

They do, and they look scared all over again.

You press on despite this. “That's your SOUL, the culmination of your being. Almost everything that you are is right there. Your SOUL starts out weak, but it can get stronger. How?” You consider what to say for a moment. A lie of omission is still a lie. So much for telling the truth, but there's no need to tell them about LV. “It's something that happens naturally as you get older, healthier, and happier. You have your HP, your... let's call them HEART POINTS.”

The human nods in understanding. They can see where this is going, and you find yourself a little proud they’re already getting it.

You continue, “If your HP reaches zero, you die. So try not to let that happen.” You wiggle your fingers, making it look like the dummy is doing something. A few of your most basic pellets spring up. “Monsters most often attack with bullets, kind of like this. Move around and don't let any hit you.”

An easy pattern to dodge, they get around it with no trouble. They look a little more relieved.

“Good start. Don't relax yet, though, that was just the tutorial. Let's try a trickier one.” You create a circle of pellets around their SOUL, with a little more space than necessary between each. Your attack closes in, and the human slips through with little difficulty, even avoiding the pellets as they spread back out. “You're getting it. Attacks can get more complicated than that, though monsters around the ruins tend not to be any more complicated than a potato. But, hey, that's just one part of a fight. What do you do when it's your turn to do something?”

The human pauses and looks distressed, chewing on their lip. They take a few minutes to do much of anything, and your arms get cramps pretending to be horns for the dummy. Being kind is hard, you lament in your mind. Finally, the human takes a breath and speaks out. They tell the dummy that they have a very nice home.

“Sorry, I'd love to strike up a conversation, but I'm a dummy. And I'm a dummy,” you say.

The human snickers at that. You find yourself smiling without meaning to, which is a really nice feeling. You love it every time it happens. Peeking over the dummy's shoulder, you say, “Ah ha, you dumb dummy, I'm the all-powerful Flowey, and you shan't kill the human with how boring you are! Why not go be boring somewhere else?”

“I would,” you say as the dummy, “But I'm a dummy. I can't move.”

The human snorts, and they say they like the dummy anyway.

“Okay, okay, I'll spare us anymore of my cleverness.” You lower your hands, stand up, and smile down at the human. “You won! Hopefully this experience will help you in the long run.”

Nodding, the human mumbles that they hope all the monsters are like the 'dummy' they just had a FIGHT with.

“Ha ha. Wouldn't that be nice?” you say. “So, ready to continue?”

They nod again, and you lead on. You think the next room is the stupidest puzzle in all of the Underground, and you're including the puzzles Sans makes. Before you can, ahem,  _ solve _ it, there's a froggit that catches you and the human off guard, and you curse yourself for not being more observant.

They tell the froggit they're a handsome fellow. Not that the froggit has even the slightest clue that they were complimented (which doesn't stop them from blushing anyway). Ugh. You really dislike monsters like these.

You sidle over and give  _ the look _ . One of your favorite faces. Simple and to the point, no-nonsense, but not a death glare. You half-wish Toriel was here to shower you with praise for learning so well from her. The human looks strangely at your expression, but you can't read their face. It eats you up inside that you can't tell what they're feeling. Even if you like not knowing, you're uneasy about it and you don't think they feel safe enough for you to pry.

You and the human continue on, down the ridiculously long hallway with no purpose. Well, it had a purpose, once, but Toriel destroyed the puzzle gauntlet that was supposed to be here. You feel bad about the lost history. But, hey, you're also glad there isn't a dozen more puzzles for you to solve on the way to the flower bed, so it's canceled out. At the end of the hallway, as you talk about the history of monsters making ridiculously oversized puzzles, you finally get the idea to call Toriel and let her know you're bringing a guest home for dinner.

You reach into your coat pocket and pull out your phone, asking the human to wait a moment.You press the speed dial. The other end picks up. “Toriel?” you say. “Howdy, I've got a-”

“ _ Woof, woof! _ ”

“ _ Ah, please, little doggy, I need that! _ ”

Your lips purse. That  _ dog _ .

“Welp,” you say, hanging up. “Gonna have to get that fixed.”

You think about going on ahead and letting Toriel know about the human, but decide against it. Leaving a child, let alone a human one, alone in the ruins seems like a bad idea on the level of asking Undyne to walk into a shop that sells glass figurines and break them all.

Instead, you decide Toriel will need to put up with the surprise in exchange for a new phone. Conveniently, you were going to call Alphys next, anyway. She needs an advanced warning even more.

You motion for the human to follow you into the next room, which is a little more lively with all the fallen leaves and the froggit with the higher IQ than a normal one and the room with the candy. “I need to make another phone call,” you tell the human. “Can you play around this room for now? You can go through that door right there to get some monster candy, if you want.”

The human looks at the froggit, who ribbits a gentle hello. The human nods and goes off to the candy room.

You press the speed-dial again, this time calling Alphys's number. She picks up after a few rings and says, “H-Hello, Alphys speaking.”

“Howdy, Alphys,” you say.

“Flowey? I-Is that you? Darn this reception.”

“No, Alphys, I'm Sans and my impressions have become impeccable.”

There's a pause on the other end, and you can't resist grinning at the scrunched up face you know she's making.

“Hardy har. Nice try, but your Sans impression is still way off, Flowey. Your jokes are t-too funny.”

“Guilty as I've ever been,” you say. “So, hey, I need a favor. Toriel's phone has been stolen.  _ Again _ .”

“Please tell me  _ that's _ a joke.”

“Not unless I'm Sans all of a sudden.”

“I'm going to catch that dog and perform illegal e-experiments on it, I swear.” Alphys sighs. “New phone?”

“Yeah, new phone. All the good features. Texting, profanity filter, storage. Any way to make it dog proof?”

“S-Science has only gone so far.”

“Fiddlesticks.” This time you pause and think about the human. “Actually, can you make that two?”

“A backup for when it inevitably h-happens again?”

“Not exactly. I... have a guest with me. A new face in the underground. A human child.”

Alphys goes silent for a bit, and you can see in your mind's eye her adjusting her glasses and trying not to scream out in shock and awe. She starts blathering, and you can hear her straining not to yell. You catch a few ' _ oh my god! _ 's and pick up some questions about how big the human is and if they've hurt anyone or if they're in danger.

When she gasps for breath, you take advantage of it and shout, “Alphys!”

There's panting on the other end and a sound like tissue paper being wadded up.

“S-Sorry, just... oh God. It's been so long since a human fell down here. There's so much to consider and... and...”

“And we can't do much about it,” you finish, pinching where the bridge of your nose would be if you had one. You could make yourself one, of course, but ehhhhhhh.

“Not immediately or directly.” She sighs through her nose. “Damn. This is going to complicate things. Crap. Crap, crap, crap.”

“I know, okay?” You know. You know that the Underground is going to go into a frantic tizzy at best, and a total societal collapse at worst. There will be riots and property damage and monsters might get hurt.

But you won't falter on your morals. Not again. Never again.

“...Of course, I d-don't need to tell you. Here I am, safe in my lab, and you're gonna be stuck right in the middle of the madness. Hah ha. Ha...” You can hear the depression creeping up on her.

“It's okay to be worried,” you say. Then you add, “I won't kill them. I refuse.”

“Right. Okay. Thanks.” She sniffles on the other end. “The camera system is up, I'll be keeping an eye on you, where the c-cameras will allow me to. Err, well, I'll be keeping an eye on the human. Damn it, I should have reprogrammed this s-stupid monitoring equipment ages ago.”

You find yourself smiling without meaning too. It's sadder than the last one. “You were busy.”

“Being a trash queen,” she says.

“Alphys,” you say, pointedly, “you really need to stop calling yourself a trash queen.”

“I'll stop calling myself a trash queen when you stop c-calling yourself a freakish abomination.”

You don't say anything for a full ten seconds. “Looks like you're still a trash queen.”

You can practically hear her shrugging and giving you that stupid grin. “So, uhh, a-any executive orders?”

That was a good question. You needed to consider this very, very carefully. You scratch your chin, thankful you've got the perfect fingers for such a task. “None that I can't deliver myself. I need to call the guard and the clerks back home and do way too much stuff.”

“No rest for the w-wicked,” Alphys says. “I'm gonna put the others on tighter lockdown, make sure no one can get to them.”

“You're a peach with an intelligence quotient higher than the rest of the underground combined,” you say. If there's going to be any more attacks, they're going to be once everyone knows there's a fresh human in the underground. They can't get the others. They just can't.

She blows a raspberry. “Please. Like I even need to be as s-smart as a gnat to know I need to do that. Anyway, I'd better get working on the phones. I'll send Toriel's to the usual spot. The h-human's phone will be in the box closest to the ruins entrance.” She coughs. “I'm too curious to know what the human is like.”

“So am I,” you say. “They're too scared to talk, currently.”

“Oh yeah, I can r-relate to that.”

So can you, but you don't say that. Alphys knows. “Well, I need to get going. I'm taking the kid to Toriel's house for a safe place to sleep before we do... something.”

“Good,” she says. “I'll see you later. I g-guess this means we're off for next Thursday.”

“Pffft, what? Why would something as small as a human visiting get in the way of anny-moo night?”

Your words are like a fresh set of batteries to Alphys, as when she next speaks she's got some pep to it. “Ha h-ha, w-well, guess I'm a pessimist at my core, worrying any little thing will stop us. But no way are we going to miss out on the sailors next transformation sequence.”

You find yourself grinning, and blushing just a bit. “Of course. See ya later, Mom.”

“B-Bye, Flowey.”

_ beep _

After sliding your phone back into your pocket, you bring a hand to your chest. Without meaning to, you make yourself twirl and pose, gushing a little as your dress flows under your coat. You've learned to love these involuntary reactions as much as the involuntary smiles.

You twitch as you take note of the confused froggit and perplexed human watching you. Getting so caught up in the conversation, you'd forgotten the human and froggit were there.

“You have a problem with the way I dress?” you say, giving them  _ the look _ .

The froggit looks away sheepishly, but the human meets your gaze with a sensation you want to describe as amazement, confusion, and... frustration, maybe?

You play it off with, “That’s right, I’m fabulous  _ and _ beautiful. Deal with it.”

The human smiles and snickers, and says they thought you were handsome. Of course you tell them you’re that too, striking a pose to prove your point. The human giggles.

“Anyway, I've wasted enough of our time. Did you get some candy?” you say, turning down to the human.

The child nods.

“And how many did you take?” you ask, just a little accusingly. You meant for it to be a joke, but something is wrong. You expected them to lie about how many pieces they took, or confess, or even be a good child and have only taken one. But they're terrified, instead. You pull at your collar and clear your throat. “Hey, hey, it's just a dumb sign. You can take as many as you want. It's your fault if you get a tummy ache.”

This seems to calm them and, after a few semi-tense seconds, they hold up three fingers.

You mock a gasp, but immediately shift to a wink as you stick out your tongue. “What a meanie you are. I'd feel all kinds of awful guilt if I were you.” The hyperbole calms them even more. Relieved, you continue, “Weeeeeell, if you're a good person, we can let a few meanie acts go. I won't tell anyone if you don't. Now, what do you say to continuing on? Candy is dandy, but there's food that's... good? Wait, why doesn't that rhyme?”

They laugh again, and you smile. The poor froggit is ten times as confused as you pretend to be about the not-rhyme, eyes spinning around as it croaks. The human toddles up next to you, giving the froggit they were talking to a wave goodbye, and you continue walking. As you continue, you ask what the human was talking to the froggit about. They said the froggit asked the human to show his friends MERCY. The human looks conflicted about it, and you can tell what they're thinking, even if they don't feel it's okay to say. Why do the monsters need mercy when they're the one being attacked?

You hope the human will understand, in time.

More idiotic puzzles stand in your way. You particularly hate the leaves puzzles. Nothing like falling and spinning to make you lose your lunch, toss your cookies, and barf. You're vocal about how much you dislike them and claim that one day you're gonna remove every single puzzle in the world and make them all illegal. They find it funny, but you're completely serious. Okay, you're not, but you're seriously angry about puzzles!

As you're pushing rocks and grumbling about how this barely counts as a puzzle, the human gets enough of a nerve to talk. You're caught off guard because you're still not used to the sound of their voice. It's been too long since you've heard a fresh one and it's weird as heck. You miss what they say the first time, so they have to repeat it. A question; What's the caretaker of the ruins like?

“Toriel is as kind as anyone can be and loves children very dearly,” you say after you finish convincing a rock to please stay in place. “She's a little intimidating, but would never harm a fly. Snails, though, should probably watch out, she loves a good snail.” The human looks grossed out, but you could go for snails in a garlic parsley butter right about now.

You pass by a mouse hole and a table with a plate of cheese on it. The human asks you  _ what _ .

You're right there with them. “I don't know. I really don't.”

There's a spider bake sale in a sequestered little corner of the ruins, one that seems to never end. They serve spider donuts and spider cider, with a sales pitch that makes the human squirm and turn green. They ask if monsters are cannibals, except they ask in a much more child-like way.

A chill goes down your spine, but you try not to let it show. “Monsters would sooner eat a shoelace pasta with trash sauce then eat each other.” They look even more sick at that and you find their discomfort funnier than you should. But it's all in good fun, and you buy a not-spider-filled donut for them to try. They like the donut so much, you can't find the heart to tell them they just ate about fifteen flies.

When you finish not picking on a Loox, in a room with four friendly froggits and the smell of mustard seed everywhere, they ask why you don't like the other monsters in the ruins.

Thunderation. You'd had hoped your discomfort wasn't so obvious, but you can't hide your disapproval any more than you can hide the color of the walls around you. “It's not that I don't like them,” you say, and you really mean it. “They're just... annoying.” You point a thumb at one of the froggits. “Seriously, these guys aren't the best conversationalists.”

The froggits have no idea what you said, but they look hurt anyway. The human, out of a surprising sense of pity, tells them they think the froggits are just fine the way they are. And you agree with the human, but that doesn't mean you have to be friends with them.

“And then there's the moldsmals. They just... sit there.”

The moldsmal just sits there, making slime sounds.

“It literally has no brain,” you add.

Typical, the human says. Curvaceously attractive, but no brains.

You cover your mouth so as not to startle everything in the ruins with your laughing. “Oh my  _ god _ ,” you muffle through your hands. The froggits are laughing too, and you can tell they understand for once. Moldsmal wiggles. The human is smiling, proud of their accomplishment.

“Oh gosh, oh boy...” you say after calming down. “Please spare  _ me _ your cleverness or I'm going to die laughing.” You wipe a tear from your eye as a froggit ribbits the joke again to their pals.

The human wiggles their hips at the moldsmal, and the moldsmal wiggles back. You roll your eyes and wiggle along with them. “What a meaningful conversation,” you say.

The human says they're happy to be right. These monsters are just like the dummy after all. Dumb, but pretty nice in the end.

"About what," you ask. 

You snort and cover your mouth again. “Hey, wasn't  _ I _ the dummy?”

The human smiles and they tell you that these monsters aren't so bad, and they don't understand why you don't like them. You sigh, but you let it go. They're too young to get why you really don't like them. Everyone's too young to understand.

More rooms, more puzzles. The smell of steamed carrots and peas is making you both hungry, but the rest of the trip is short. Just a walk through a physically impossible set of rooms and one last hallway and there you are. There's the now-dead tree and the house.

“And this is where the caretaker lives,” you say as you walk up to the door. The human follows close behind, nervous, but not as much. You're glad one of you is calmed. You knock on the door, one of the few new things in the ruins.

“Coming!” Toriel says. She sounds breathless, because of course she is. Probably only just got home. It's a little bit before she opens the door and you get to... see her. Oh god, you feel like you're going to throw up.

“Flowey, I hope your trip went... Oh!” Toriel looks down. She's smiling. Putting on the brave face she always puts on, but you see the tell. Shock and terror is running down her ribs and gripping her heart. Despite this, she dutifully stays the cheery facade and says, “I see you have made a new friend.”

Ha ha. You've come to admire how good she is at keeping her cool. You've learned so much from her about maintaining a level head. “Sure have!” you say, breaking boundaries and ruffling the small human's mop of hair. They wince at the sudden touch. You're starting to notice a pattern. “I hope you don't mind me making promises on your behalf, but I told my new best friend there was an open bed and food here for them. Mind not making a liar out of me?”

“There's always room for friends of yours,” Toriel says. The image of being perfectly calm cracks a little bit when she notices the human's state of being. “I am sorry you have fallen down, little one. Ah, you appear to be badly harmed. Please, come inside and let me tend to your wounds,” she says as she steps inside.

You allow the human to go first, masking it as a polite gesture. They do so and you take the moment alone to fall against the door frame. You're so sick right now, your knees ready to give out. Your mind and body both beg you to fall into a heap right there and never get back up.

But you're too full of determination to ever do that, fortunately. Obligations and promises to keep. Phone calls to make. Anime to watch.

You compose yourself after a few seconds. Working through the sickness never gets easier, but you're getting better at pulling it together. You step inside and find the human looking pleasantly baffled as Toriel works her magic.

“There,” she says, finishing off with the wound under the human's bandage. “Does it hurt anywhere else?” When the human shakes their head no, Toriel continues, “Very good. Unfortunately I only just got home, so I need to start dinner. But perhaps that is lucky, as now I can make enough for all of us. You must be tired after such a long walk, though. Would you like to have a nap while I get to work?”

The human looks at you for reassurance. You give a friendly nod and say, “Naps are good for you. You'll grow like a weed with enough rest. Just look at me, I'm the tallest weed you'll ever see.” You wink, and the human giggles.

Toriel shares in the giggling and replies, “It's absolutely  _ vine _ if you grow quickly, child, it will help you  _ branch out _ and find new friends.”

Oh, it's on now. “Hey, come on Toriel, jokes like that will make the kid  _ leaf _ .” You give her the finger guns. “I'm not sure where this pun problem of yours  _ stems _ from, but we need to get to the  _ root _ of the problem before you tell anymore terrible j _ oaks _ .”

Toriel gives a grin, preparing her arsenal for a full scale attack. But the human prevents your pun war with a long yawn, interrupting their own giggling. Toriel decides to let you be the victor today. “Come along, your room is right over here.”

Offering her hand proves as fruitless as your attempt. The human is still too skittish to take it. Toriel's face gains a look of puzzling worry, but she leaves it alone and leads the human through the house. You take this chance to hang your coat on a wrack, taking your phone out of the pocket, and walk to the living/dining room to sit down at the table. The chair creaks, though not like how you remember. But that was a different chair, you weren't quite so heavy, and you actually knew what it sounded like.

You wrap your fingers together and try to focus your thoughts on important matters. Miserably, you fail. There are phone calls you should be making, to the guard captain and to the capital and to Sans. You need to let the guard know about your guest and the protection the human will need, let your clerks prepare all the legal documents the human will need to be a citizen. You also have the idea to call Mettaton and get the tin box to work his charm with a PSA about what not to do with humans.

Concentration is lost to you, however. You're too busy thinking about Toriel's face.

Speak of the devil. Or think of the devil. Whatever. Toriel walks into the room and sits across from you instead of getting started on dinner. You sit up straight and avoid her gaze.

“The child is asleep now,” Toriel says.

“That's nice,” you say. “They sure were tired.”

“Indeed,” she says back. “Passed out like a light once their head was on a pillow. Poor thing.”

“Oh yes,” you reply. “Yes, I would have healed the human myself, but they were too scared to let me get near. Plus you're just, you know, so much better at it than I am.” You want the human to be here. It's so much easier for you and Toriel to tell puns with a third party to fill the silence between gaps. Neither of you try to fill that silence yourselves anymore. You both know you'll fail.

“...”

“...”

Toriel sighs. “Look at us flailing around,” she says, lowering her head. “Trying to talk like we are adults when neither of us are even close. Why do we even bother anymore?”

“Obligation,” you say, smiling a sad smile. “We have too much history to just let each other go.”

You can feel Toriel's heart break when you say  _ history _ . That makes it sound so distant and unimportant and you know it. You want it that way because you deserve it being that way. And, selfishly, it's easier that way.

Toriel looks off to the side. “Can you blame me? I still love you, and I always will.”

You tense, feeling like your own body is trying to strangle itself. It hurts. It hurts so much.

“Do you think I cannot see the pain you are in?” It's all hot air at this point. This is the seventh time she's said this too you. “You wear your heart on your sleeve, like you always have.”

No. Not always. Not when you had no heart to speak of.

“I am your—” She starts, then stops. Now she looks like she's in pain. It's nothing compared to yours, but knowing she's even in the slightest discomfort because of you makes the agony that much worse. But gosh, you appreciate her doing this, and you can never say how much. What a miserable creature you are, preventing your mother from calling you her son.

Toriel gulps and tries again. “I am your friend, Flowey. And what do friends do for each other if not listen to every last bemoaning and wail? I will sit here and pay attention to every word.”

You want to correct her and tell her she's not your friend. She's your mommy. If you try to say it, that word, that precious, wonderful word, you'll choke on it as it turns to bile.

“Please... I am begging. Tell me what is wrong and I will help your through it. I do not want to see you in pain anymore.”

You consider it, same as you have six times before. You want to, so badly, to break down and let the tears flow, run into her lap and stay there until it all dries up and you're left hiccuping and she can hug you and kiss it better. Call her mommy, and let her call you son, and then snuggle under the covers because everything's going to be okay. But...

How do you tell your mommy you killed her? And not just killed her, but killed her again, and again, and again, and looked for more cruel and creative and  _ evil _ ways to do it each time?

And the only reason you did was because you were bored.

Every time you see her face, you remember how it can contort. You can see all kinds of emotions, each more nuanced and complex than the last. What her face looks like when she dies because you attacked her first. And what it looks like when you tell her you're her son and you then pierce her chest with a knife, then a plastic knife just to make it extra painful.

Ha ha. Ha. Ha ha ha ha.

Oh, and don't forget what her face looks like when it melts. And how her face looks when you force feed her pie until she chokes on the crust, her tears making a delectable seasoning. And how her face looks when her head is ripped off, right from her shoulders, and left rolling along the floor.

And how her face looks when she freezes to death.

And how her face looks when she's being baked alive.

And how her face looks when you clip her fingers off, one by one, and keep working up.

And how her face looks when she's crushed between the ruin walls.

And how her face looks when...

And how her...

And how...

And...

…

…

…

You give Toriel a smile, making it just sad enough to keep any more suspicion away. “You already know what it is, Toriel,” you say.

You know you're lying, and she does too. But you can't tell her. It's not just creepy, it's nightmarish.

Toriel looks off to the side, her face trying to go blank. She's nowhere near as good at it as you are, and you can see the pain and sorrow and regret in her eyes. “If that is what you truly wish, I will drop it,” she says. “Can we talk about the human, then? I want to know what you plan to do with them.”

Prolonging the conversation aches, but you suffer through it. “As if you even need to ask for my permission,” you say with a warm, small smile.

There's a similar gesture from her and you can tell she's happy and proud of you. You don't deserve it.

“So... what are your plans?” she asks.

You half expected her to present an idea first. It's obvious to you what it's going to be because you know how much she cares about children. But she trusts you to have a better idea.

“I want to take them to the capital,” you say. “It's not going to be easy, not by a long shot. Even there, they'll face prejudice and hate. But there's a chance for happiness there more than any place else. A human, living in the city of monsters,  _ with _ monsters. Fostering a friendship that can last for ages, build trust in the system, a new hope. A  _ real _ hope. One that monsters can believe in and strive for. And for the human, they'll have a chance to go to a nice school and play with children their own age.”

The corner of Toriel's lips twitch when you say that.

Continuing, you say, “The human can live as normal a life as possible, and monsters can see that life with the humans is possible. Peace will be possible. The human will become a symbol for all the Underground. And the human can live out their life to the fullest we have to offer.”

Toriel opens her mouth to say something. You're honestly not sure what she was going to say. Sometimes it's hard to read her face because of how much things have changed. Your first guess is it's about making the human into a symbol, turning the child into an object for your own uses. Second guess is she was going to argue that the human should stay here, in the ruins. Those seem like the most likely, anyway.

“It is a good long-term plan,” she says. “Probably kinder than any of the other options.”

It hurts her to admit this, but with the way everything's changed, she had to change, too. It was inevitable she'd respond differently to a human now as opposed to the last six times.

“Would you like to make a suggestion?” you say. “I always value your input. Out of all the rulers I've known, you were the best.”

She laughs at that. A dry laugh with as much humor as simply stabbing someone in the heart, over and over again _. _ “You've only ever known two.”

You wink and stick out your tongue. “Still applies.”

She sighs and says, “What can I say that you do not already know? It will be dangerous, with the monsters out there that will hunt them down. They will require protection at all times and need to learn how to defend themselves. And that is assuming they will go.”

“Well... what other choice do they have?” you say. You sound sad, because you are sad. You hate this. “All the other towns on the way to the capital aren't safe enough. Snowdin is the second-safest for them, and that's only because the boneheads are there. It's close enough to Waterfall to be unsafe. And they can't live in Waterfall because...” You frown, sadder still. “You know why.”

Toriel clenches her jaw. “Asgore's Sentries...” she says.

You cover your face with your hands and continue, “And Hotland isn't fit for a human. They can survive, sure, but they can't live there unless they live with Alphys. And they'd have even less space than they'd have here.”

Poor Toriel looks sideways at that. You know it hurts her that you didn't bring up the possibility of the human living in the ruins, but it's not a possibility. Not a real one, in your mind. There's not enough to do in the ruins to keep a child stimulated. Sounds like such a small thing, but you know how important some good entertainment is. More important than you'll ever be comfortable admitting. Plus the ruins are small and lonely, with the absolute worst monsters you could ever ask for company. They won't live a happy life here. They'll just grow miserable, and then grow old.

“The capital,” you continue, “has space and food and life enough to share. I know it's cramped, still, but every day it gets a little bigger and roomier. It's also where the guard can keep the easiest eye on them, and where the Sentries will have the hardest time catching them. They'd actually need to use cunning and subterfuge to get in, and their leader is as good at doing that as they are at cooking.”

Toriel gives a real laugh this time.

“I know it's not ideal, but it's the best plan I have. Feel free to critique, I'm always open to suggestions.”

She contemplates for a few hard seconds before saying, “You are too wise for me, Flowey, you already know the strengths and flaws in this idea. What more could an old crone like me add?”

You want to tell her that she could add plenty, but you already know she can't. You've run the plan through your head about a hundred times already and worked out all the finer details. The numbers aren't perfect, but you're as close to a one-hundred percent chance of victory as you're going to get.

“Yes, well...” you say. “There's still a few finer parts. I'm going to escort them personally.”

“There is no one else I'd trust to transport them there,” she replies.

“I'm going to let them live in the palace. I'll take care of them like... like my own child.” You feel like you're going to vomit again when you say that and see her expression turn into one of pride.

She sees your discomfort this time, but she has no idea what it's for. “That is very good.”

“I'm also going to call Mettaton,” you say. You both share a look like you drank sour milk. Before she can ask why you'd ever do such a thing, you explain, “He's got the most popular-”

“The only,” Toriel corrects.

You legitimately forgot he was the only. You try not to watch his dribble, if you can avoid it, and so don't watch anything that isn't the stuff Alphys finds at the dump. “The  _ only _ show in the Underground. I'd like to do a piece with him, where we talk about how we can do the friendship thing with humans and get it out there that a human is among us. He can get so many monsters knowing and on board with the idea at once.”

“Again, your wisdom knows no bounds,” Toriel says, though she's squinting. There's no way Toriel would ever put up with Mettaton's ego, let alone get on a talk show with him.

But you know Mettaton is a good guy deep in his batteries. You share a lot in common with him (far more than you like) and understand the quirks and oddities that come from being a matter-SOUL-fusion.

“I am terrified...” she says. Nothing you didn't already know. “For the human child. For the Underground. For you.”

“That's just life, isn't it?” you say, raising you thorns up to give them a good, hard stare. “We make our scary choices, every day, and we live with the consequences. Sometimes they're good, and sometimes they're bad. We have to do our best and stay strong enough to move forward. There will be riots and outcry from some. Someone is going to suffer for this. Let it be me and the monsters that make the choice to hate instead of forgive.”

“You haven't done anything wrong,” she says.

It makes you disgusted that you let her believe that.

“I have,” you say. “And I'm not above the consequences.”

She wants to argue, desperately, achingly. If it was possible, she'd die of heartache. That would be a new face, if it happened. You don't want to see that face.

“But hey!” you say, putting on a big smile. If it was the biggest smile you could muster, it would grow off your face and be downright terrifying, so you don't do that. “It could be worse. I could be dead.”

It's not the most comforting thought ever, but it's the most comforting thing about your situation. You could be dead, and she could be dead, and everyone in the entire Underground could be dead. They're not and you're not, and that's the only way it could get worse.

Is what you hope she believes.

Toriel doesn't say anything for several minutes. She gets up, and says, “I am going to get started on something for the human to eat.”

You wilt, quite literally. “I'm sorry,” you say.

“And I forgive you,” she says. “I always will. You know where you can sleep.” And off she goes into the kitchen.

You drink in the absence of company like you drink rum, but you don't stick around to enjoy it. You get up and start walking towards your room, intending to go past it and into the room Toriel set up for you. You intend to do that. But you see that the door to your room is open, and catch a naughty little human ducking back inside.

Fondly, you smile, remembering when you used to do that, trying to listen to the grown-up conversations and figure out what they meant. Your parents never caught you in your memories, but you're sure they knew you did it with... Anyway. You decide that the human needs to be confronted and given some clarification. This is a lot bigger than birthday presents and formal dinner parties.

You pull the door open, just in time to see the edges of the blanket flutter. Boots tapping against the floor, you move closer to the bed. You can't help but look around and try to remember. It's not as vibrant as most of your other memories, as to you it's been... too long. Don't think about it or you'll pass out. But you remember standing in this room, thinking the bed was too small and the shoes too tiny and coming to the sudden realization that you'd grown. And they were right there, laughing at you because you were still a kid.

Tearing your gaze from a photo, you look at the human. How cute, they think they fool you. “Nice try, kid,” you say as you sit on the bed. “But I was your age once,” and you're very technically still close to that age, “and I know the signs.”

They frown and look sorry.

“Hey, it's okay. You're not in trouble or anything like that.” Making an awkward “heh”, you say, “You heard me and Toriel talking. A lot of big concepts you shouldn't have to deal with.”

They sit up and sit next to you and say they understood some of it. Things are dangerous outside the ruins, but you want to take them somewhere safe. And them being safe will make monsters nice?

“Something like that,” you say. You rest your chin on a fist and make a  _ pbbbt _ noise with your tongue. The annoyance is strong in you. Nothing should be this hard, and yet most things in life are. “I know you're not dumb, so I'll be completely honest. How much does the world above know about monsters?”

They tell you what they've heard. Most of it is myths, legends, and nonsense, even worse than what the last human had to tell you.

“I get why you didn't think we existed,” you say. “It's been what feels like eons for us down here. That's a long time for anyone. And we're stuck down below because of a magic spell cast by humans.”

That was a scrap of history that survived, even if it was dramatized. The humans valiantly cast the monsters into the pits of hell, and were sealed away by great heroes. Makes it all sound so romantic and terrible. Though the faces that the human's first contact with monsters were you, frogs, crying bugs, and freaking gelatin probably removed the image of hell-beasts from their mind.

“The part about us being cast into hell isn't so far off,” you say. “It's been a hard life down here. Food was scarce and space is limited, even if we’re making more room. Comfort is a novelty we only achieved in the last few decades. And to most monsters, it's all the humans' fault.”

You agree with this assessment, in fairness. It's  _ the _ humans' fault. Not all of them.

The human asks if revenge is why the monsters would attack them.

“That's a very, very big part of it. The other part is they want to cross the barrier. That's the thing that keeps us trapped down here. The only way through it is with human SOULs like yours.”

They whimper some. You notice they don't look surprised.

“So... yeah... they'll want your SOUL. To cross, or break, the barrier. But that's only some of them. Most monsters are like Toriel, friendly and nice and just trying to enjoy what little we have.”

The human asks if they're anything like you. You prepare to tell them yes out of habit, but they beat you to it and say no, because none of them are as handsome or have your sense of humor.

Completely disarmed, you snigger. So you're off guard when the human asks why you won't tell Toriel what's wrong.

“Wow, you're slightly cruel, you know that?” you say, amusement all over your face.

They tell you that you both seem nice, like really good friends. And Toriel said so herself; friends talk to each other.

“Is that what your friends do?” you ask.

The human looks down at the floor. They nod and say yes, they did.

That word choice was deliberate, you think, and you mull over it for a second. “You had good friends, then,” you say. You look away, feeling like the slimeball you are. “And I have really nice friends, too, but Toriel isn't someone I can talk to about this.”

The human, surprising you with how astute they are, says that it involves Toriel herself, right? If it does, you shouldn't hide it from her.

“Geez, kid, you're like a mind reader.” You turn back to them and smirk. “And you're adorable for thinking it's that easy.”

But it should be that easy, they say, then cross their arms and pout. Frustration, not at you.

“I'm not telling Toriel, and that's the end of that.” You pat the top of their head and they wave you off. “Here's something you can have a say in, something you  _ should _ have a say in. I feel like a class A jerk for talking the way I was, but Toriel needed to buy the whole ‘responsible adult’ thing.” You take a deep breath. “Do you want to come to the capital? With me?” You offer your hand to them. “It's a big decision to make, and one I don't expect you're ready for. You're probably terrified, still, and the ruins seems nice and safe. Or maybe they don't, but Toriel will make them safe for you. In the capital, however, I'll provide for you and give you everything I can. You'll be treated like royalty.”

And that will come with responsibilities, they say. Will they need to act a certain way?

“You're talking like you've already decided,” you say with a wink.

They kind of have. Again, you are surprised by their behavior. You expected one thing, and instead they'd like to stay with you, and see the rest of the Underground, and meet all the friendly monsters. It's all so new and exciting and pretty scary. But you'll be there to protect them from the unfriendly monsters, right?

“Of course I will!” you boast. “I'm the toughest thing in the Underground, and any mean ol' monster will have to beat me up. And that's just impossible, cause I'll beat them up first!”

They seem reassured by this, but are understandably still troubled. They place their hand in yours and you wrap your fingers around their tiny appendage. They're not as scared as they were before, and you couldn't be happier about it. They tell you your hand is like a cactus or a rose stem that's all nice and smooth and stuff. They like the way it feels, they say.

You put your other hand on their shoulder as you stand up. “Then I think you'll like it back at my home,” you say. “I'm looking forward to it not just being a cact- _ I _ and let it be more of a cact _ -us _ .”

Playfully, they bap you on the cheek and tell you you're a terrible monster man.

“Oh, I'm the worst monster ever,” you say, meaning it completely. “You'll have to get used to it and the rest of my charms. I hope you don't mind four-leaf-clovers and horseshoes.”

Bap goes your cheek again.

“Okay, okay, clearly my luck's run out. You get some sleep, alright? We can talk about the rest of the neat-o details tomorrow. There's a big trip ahead of us, 'bunch of folks to meet and things to do.”

They nod and let out a yawn. When they're done, they have earnest happiness tugging at the corner of their lips. You let them lay down, and you walk out of the room. You ignore the fact that Toriel was spying on you; you've spied on her enough that you'll never blame her, and she was sweet enough to let you get away with doing it. Returning the favor isn't the least you can do, but you do it and so much more anyway.

You cross the threshold around Toriel's room, and ignore it. Not like it's your business to explore inside... even if you already have. You make your way to the room you sleep in when you come to visit Toriel. You have few memories of this place and you're happy with that. A nice room to be alone and un-think. You slide off your boots, pull off your socks and let your feet run free. You like yourself more with the boots on, as it feels a lot more right on you than going barefoot, but you simply can't sleep in them. You keep your dress on, though, and don't remove the locket around your neck. You let the laziness take a hold of you to appease the fatigue in your fibers.

But you can't sleep yet. Time to make some phone calls. You press the speed-dial for the captain of the royal guard.

“Hello, Papyrus...?”

* * *

 

You dream of darkness. A darkness full of nothing. No one. Only you and your regrets.

* * *

 

The end of your nap brings the same thing it always brings. Miserable and tired, you push yourself out of bed with a sound like the bark of a tree snapping. You rub the ache from your eyes and get your boots back on. That's so, so much better.

 Your morning ritual begins. First, check your hands and feet. Yep, still there. Everything's still real and exists. Ritual complete.

Giving yourself a few slaps to wake yourself up, you adorn the smile you use to proclaim that everything's okay, and step outside to-

Surprise! It smells like butterscotch-cinnamon pie.

You groan. “Toriel...” you mumble, and start tromping down the hall.

Yep, there's Toriel, serving hot, steaming pie.

“Good morning, Flowey,” she says cheerfully, as if the previous whatever-time-of-the-day hadn't happened. “I hope you slept well.”

“No,” you say, flatter than a piece of paper.

Toriel blinks. “What?”

“No,” you say again. “That is not dinner.”

Toriel tries to give you  _ the look _ . “You never complained when it was your dinner.”

Your shoulders tense at that.

“Oh, ah... I am sorry. I did not mean-” she begins, but you interrupt her.

You try to keep the spite in your voice to a minimum. “I'm a grown monster, now,” you say. Which is untrue for a multitude of reasons, but it's a hard point to argue. “Which means I'm adult enough to know that sugar-filled pie is not a good enough meal for a starving child.”

Toriel clears her throat, trying to get over her panic of setting you off, however slightly it appeared to be. She argues, “And it is for that reason we should give them something special as their first meal here.”

“You'll never hear me say food shouldn't be special,” you say as you head toward the kitchen. “But dinner should be substantial and hearty, not sugary and sweet. They're gonna get sick. I'm going to make the human a  _ real _ dinner.”

Most monsters who’ve met Toriel didn't know she was capable of spite. But she was. With a huff, she said, “I am a boss monster, I do not need to go shopping often. I hardly have much of anything on hand, what do you expect of me?”

“I expect you to get creative,” you say as you open the fridge. Some eggs, butter, milk, bacon, cheddar cheese with parmesan left over from a pasta night, an onion, and of course, the stuff to make butterscotch-cinnamon pie. Beyond that, the pickings were slim.

Toriel stands at the doorway, with an expression that says  _ I told you so _ . “Let's see how ‘creative’ you are, Flowey.”

With a glint in your eye, you grab a pie tin and begin working on the crust. “Prepare to be dazzled, my dear Miss Toriel.”

The bacon crisps in a buttery pan as you beat the eggs, the oven seeing some long overdue use. Cheese becomes shredded, an onion becomes chopped. There's no knives in the kitchen, you know this, but your fingery thorns make a fine replacement once you make them elongate.

Some milk, the eggs, and some salt and pepper get mixed in a bowl. You layer the bacon and the cheeses at the bottom of a crust and pour the eggy-milk mixture over.

Toriel is looking over your shoulder, but you don't mind. No doubt she's got bafflement written all over her face, though you try your best not to look at her.

“You're smiling,” she says.

Oh. She didn't have the expression or feeling you expected at all. Caught off guard, you can't help but look at her. She's smiling like she's always loved you, no matter what you do to her _.  _ You then notice that you are, indeed, smiling.

“I'm always trying to do that,” you say, snapping your thorns together, sparks flying out from each crack.

“But that one looks sincere,” Toriel says. She winks and sticks out her tongue. “I can always tell the difference.”

…You don't give her enough credit, sometimes. “Ha, ha...” No way to fill the blank space in any meaningful way. You hate yourself, but you can't stop smiling. You seem happy. Instead of directly replying, you say, “Consarn it, I've never been as good at this as you were,” you say, giving your thorns a few more snaps. It doesn’t help you’re nervous.

She puts her hand under yours, the feeling of warmth permeating your thick, green flesh. Snapping her fingers, her thumb is immediately alight and your hands follows soon after.

“Oh, thanks!” you say as you bring your blazing hands over your concoction, waving around in small circles to spread the heat evenly. Heh. Your eyes are watering. Moments like these are so rare. There's no memory really like this, none that relates. It's a fresh, new experience with little to spoil it; your mommy helped you cook dinner. That's a wonderful, new thought you're going to cherish every time you look at her hands. It will never get old.

“There,” you say after an hour or so of heating. Your quiche is looking quite fine, if you might say so yourself. The piping hot dish is raised up into the air as you bring it in to let the scent waft over you. “How's that for creative, eh?” You practically shove your meal in her face.

She's impressed, she just doesn't want to admit to being outdone by... by a flower.  _ The look _ with amusement laced in is pointed your way, though aside from your grinning you are unfazed.

“Looks like I still have things to learn,” she says, but you can tell she wanted to say, “I can hardly believe I'm getting cooking lessons from my son.”

“There's always a meal to be found, even in scraps,” you say. You bring the quiche to the table, setting it next to Toriel's still-warm pie.

Toriel looks down at the two dishes. There's something she's seeing you're not, as she gets contemplative. Is she truly feeling that bad over the fact that you can out-cook her, now? Or does she notice how different your tastes are? You love her pies, but you want things besides candies and sweets these days. Of the two filled crusts before you, the egg-bacon thing looks the tastiest. Maybe she sees that quiche and sees just how  _ different _ you are from her. Only the barest of resemblances, inside and out, nothing recognizable. Where she's a kindly, sweet pie full of good feelings, you're filled with practical, well-aged pieces that have gone through so much more than she has.

Or maybe you're thinking way too hard about a freaking quiche. Who thinks this hard about a gosh darned quiche?

…Heh heh. You do, of course.

Toriel grabs plates while you began slicing the quiche up and you find this to be excellent timing. The human walks into the living room, sniffing at the air and saying something smells like eggs and bacon. It is breakfast time?

“Not quite,” you say as you grab a plate and set a slice of quiche on it. “This is what we call dinner, my dear. Toriel, silly sweetheart that she is, thought a pie would be good enough for supper, so you can thank me for this marvelous meal.”

You can feel Toriel smirking at you without having to look. You're happy you don't have to turn around to see.

“Flowey thinks they are some sort of culinary genius,” Toriel says as you serve her a slice. She takes a bite. “...Oh. Apparently they are.”

The human has a big, warm, happy smile as they take their first bite.

“Please, please, you're all too kind,” you say as you take a helping and begin eating. You let out a sigh as flavor coats your tongue. “This isn't even the best I can do. Give me some fresh ingredients to work with, then I can make magic happen.” You give a wave of your hand and send sparkles flying. The human seems impressed. Toriel, less so.

“Fine, fine, there is no doubt your quiche is  _ egg- _ cellent,” Toriel says as she sits down. Her expression becomes more prideful, in a sad sort of way. “Leave it to you to turn a few meager morsels into a feast.”

“Hardly a feast,” you say. “I'm just trying to  _ bacon _ -structive.”

The human snorts and covers their mouth to prevent laughing out eggs and cheese.

Toriel giggles as well and replies, “Flowey, please, how can the human  _ crust _ your cooking if you are going to make them spit it up?”

“I'm sorry, I can't stop it!” you lament, bringing a hand to you chest and leaning back in your chair as if you're going to faint. “I couldn't if I  _ fried _ .”

You don't  _ fry _ quiche, the human says.

“You'll be amazed how wrong you are, kid,” you say. “And, hey, I'm glad you like it, but I can swear by my SOUL that the pie here is pretty good, too,” you say as you reach your claws to the pie and begins slicing. When you're finished, you lick your fingers clean. Home made. The only way to enjoy sweets. You savor the taste. It feels like so very long since you've last had Toriel's pie. Probably because it has been so long, as you recollect on the years you've gone without this flavor. Without her real smiles.

The human is much more enraptured than you are. They say they can't decide what they like more. Is living in the Underground always going to be like this?

You give the human a sad smile. Your good mood is spoiled like milk left out in Hotland for a month. “I'm going to try my best to make as many nights like this as possible. It's a promise.”

You saying ‘promise’ makes them a little sad, too. You haven't the foggiest idea why, but they don't stay that way for long enough to really read their face. Instead, they smile and ask if it can be pizza next time. They've always wanted to try a homemade pizza.

“Next time,” you say, and once again you promise. They seem happy about this.

Toriel takes another bite and sighs. “I suppose that next time won't be here,” she says. “It is unfortunate that we cannot get together like this more.”

Part of you wants to curse Toriel for giving the human more things to ask you about, but that part is snuffed out under the bitter feelings of regret. You look off to the side and say, “It is.”

The human says it can be fixed, though, can't it? Why can't Toriel come with you to this great big capital place?

Toriel furrows her brow before you can. You keep your head forward and your chin up to keep the appearance of a well-adjusted whatever-the-heck-you-are, but if you felt comfortable doing it you'd be mimicking the dark look on Toriel's face. This is another expression you never saw during your... bad times. Toriel never hated like this until a short while ago.

“I do not feel welcome outside these ruins,” Toriel says. When she sees the human's look of worry, she chokes.

You recall a time when Toriel would have simply avoided the topic. Not lie, never lie, but dodge the questions and leave them unanswered. Try to protect someone from misery with sweet words to mask the shadowy ones. She's not like that anymore. Are you okay with that? Can you live with how much you've changed her? Ha. As if you had a choice in the matter.

“It is... hard to explain to one so young,” she says. “I made a choice a long, long time ago. To run away instead of stay and fight for what I believed in. Take it from someone far, far too old; hiding away from  _ every _ thing doesn't solve  _ any _ thing.”

God, your heart is about to explode. You set your fork down. “Toriel...” you say.

She shakes her head. “That is life, though. You make your choices, and you have to live with them. Someday I will be able to leave this place. Someday I will be able to forgive myself, move on, and live somewhere closer to the ones I love most.”

Toriel, the simple-minded fool that she is, gives you a look of knowing understanding. As if she knows all the horrible, terrible, psychopathic things you've done beyond allowing your best friend to commit suicide and taking part in a genocidal plan of destruction and death. You want to slap her and tell her never to look at you that way again. You've seen it too many times.

Closing her eyes, she says, “Forgive me, child, it is not a burden you should carry with you. But I must refuse. The world outside is not for me. Not yet.”

Someday it will be, you promise her silently. Someday.

The human doesn't know what else to say about it and just sort of pokes their slice of pie.

Silence reigns over the table for a moment before you take a deep breath and make your declaration. “Well, I've made some very important phone calls, little one. You've officially got a home in New Home. That's the capital of the Underground, by-the-by.”

They snort and say that's a pretty bad name for a city.

“It is,” you say, holding back a sad, sad smile. “Probably the worst name ever. Next to mine, of course.”

“You do not wear self-deprecating humor well,” Toriel says.

“Anyway,” you continue, “there's a long walk ahead of us. We're going to be escorted personally by the captain of the royal guard to make sure we stay extra safe.” Not that you need protection yourself, but you always need help. “But they don't expect us for a few days, and, well, we have some time to kill. Perhaps we could, I don't know, hang out together? Toriel knows where some great bug-hunting spots in the ruins are.”

Toriel's eyes are practically sparkling, and the human expresses how much fun this sounds in a nervous sort of way. Under normal circumstances, you'd refuse to do this kind of thing with her. The less time she reminds you of... those faces, the better. But a few days of suffering to make them happy is worth it.

“Perhaps we could go after dinner?” Toriel says.

Seeing the true, unabashed joy on her face fills you with pure, unbridled happiness.

* * *

 

You walk across a long hallway, the “basement” of this old home, and find yourself contemplating. No one remembers why it was built this way, not even Toriel. You wish you knew how to more easily distract yourself from the memories you have of this place. Despite the lack of features, despite it all just being stone, you have a memory, fond and warm and completely inaccurate. As you run your fingers across the walls, you think about the very last time you walked through here and you were still... well. When you weren’t  _ you _ .

Holding their hands. Telling them they have no reason to be afraid. Everything would be fine.

“It's okay,” you say, holding the human's hand tight. “There are good reasons to be afraid. But everything will be fine.”

The human holds just as tight back, and says they know. They trust you. Toriel, meanwhile, gives you another of those prideful looks you aren't used to. As you lead the human along, toward a weird, scary place, you feel like you've earned it. Just a little bit.

You, Toriel, and the human now stand in front of the nearly final door. “Well,” you say, letting the human's hand go to allow Toriel and the human to hug goodbye. You mask this by putting on your coat, though you suspect Toriel is on to you. “This is it,” you say. “Time for the first leg of our adventure.”

The human, now much healthier looking than when you first met them, says they're ready to go... but not before they can get a goodbye hug?

“Of course, my child,” she says, kneeling down to wrap them in her arms.

A pang of jealousy shoots through you, though you try to ignore it. You fail, but you don't show off how much you want a goodbye hug, too.

Toriel pulls back and gives the human a once-over. “It was wonderful, having you around,” she says. It's aimed just as much at you as it is at the human, and it strikes you right in your SOUL. It hurts in the best way possible.

The human nods and says they had so much fun. It was cool and interesting and they learned so much! They wanna come back some time and do more cocoa... coach-o... chocobo...

“Conchology,” Toriel finishes for them.

Yeah, that!

“I am glad you enjoyed it!” she says, beaming from ear-to-ear. “Next time I will share the other forty-three snail facts. Something we can look forward to, yes?” She stands up and looks to you hopefully in a way she thinks is discreet. You find it adorable how she tries to ask it so indirectly.

“Next time have more groceries,” you say. Naturally, going outside is difficult for her, but you hope she can tell how serious you're being and how much you're joking.

Evidently she does. “Only if you bring less snark,” she says. She comes over to you and... you see the way she moves, a habit from centuries ago. But she stops herself short of performing the action.

Despite everything, she still thinks it's you.

You offer a hand. “Well, Toriel, it was a pleasure to see you again. Next time we'll...” you pause. A promise forms on your tongue, but you can't speak it. “Well. Next time we'll water the flowers together. How does that sound?”

She chews her lip and she takes your hand for a firm shake. “Well... Goodbye, Flowey. Goodbye, my child. Please, be good. Both of you.” She turns to leave and begins walking away.

But she turns around one more time. You've done your best to keep your face straight and hide all the fear, doubt, and disgust you feel towards yourself when you look at her, and you've done an excellent job. But the facade cracks some as you see her longingly look back at both you and the human. You raise your hand up and wave, sliding your smiling face back on. Everything's going to be okay, you're trying to say, trying to convince both her and yourself of this.

She believes you, and waves one final time before walking away.

The human takes your hand again. “Ready?” you ask, and they nod. You push the door open, and walk into the room with the last shred of sunlight you'll see until you reach the capital.

You've come to a stop, looking up at the light. It takes you a few minutes to realize you weren't the one who halted your progress. Looking down at the human, you find a look somewhere between frustration, sorrow, and indignation.

You still won't talk to her, will you?

“I thought I told you to drop this,” you say. But you can't be mad at them, they're just a silly kid who wants the world to be nice and simple. How could you fault them for that?

But Toriel seemed so sad, they say. There's some kind of big important... thing between you two and it's eating her up inside. Don't you care?

More than the human could ever comprehend. “If you knew what me and Toriel had been through, you wouldn't be asking that,” you say.

The human huffs and says, so tell me.

You sigh. You know this kind of curiosity and frustration. How it gnaws and bites and nibbles at you until you submit or go insane and submit anyway. What you want to say is, “No, now stop asking twerp,” but that won't solve anything except make them bitter. Avoiding that would be much more valuable, so you cave the slightest bit. “Tell you what,” you say. “If you can make it to the capital without asking again, I'll tell you everything. But if you ask again, you'll never get to know.” You don't intend to tell them the whole story, but you're going to tell the parts of it you would have told eventually.

The human smiles at that. Do you promise? Yes? No?

“I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it,” you say. “But I promise.”

They make you cross your heart. A human tradition, no doubt. Swearing on the most important thing about yourself. Break the promise, break your heart. And you're never going to break this precious heart of yours. Though you did hesitate on the whole ‘hoping to die’ part. You’d definitely done enough of that.

They tug at your hand and they lead you along this time. You help them push open the final door of the ruins, ready to take the long walk back home with your new best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: Mother 4
> 
> Being real, don't expect an update to this for a while. I'm still trying to figure some things out about the story and write ahead some. But this chapter has been finished for four months and I'm proud of it, so here. Who wants to ramble about Undertale and be friends?


End file.
